‘World’s End’ Continues ‘Shaun of the Dead’ and ‘Hot Fuzz’

Video Edgar Wright, the director of “The World’s End,” narrates the opening sequence from his film.

By A. O. SCOTT

August 22, 2013

On a summer evening in 1990, five British teenagers attempted a heroic pub crawl in the town of Newton Haven, a feat of herculean imbibing known as the Golden Mile. Along the way, there were vomiting, fighting and drunken sex, but amid all that fun, the group failed to make it through the requisite 12 watering holes, the last of which was called the World’s End. Their second try, more than 20 years later, is the subject of Edgar Wright’s new movie.

The five nondescript rock ’n’ roll pimple-faces grew up to be played by distinguished British actors, one of them (Martin Freeman) a famous Hobbit, and two of them (Simon Pegg and Nick Frost) mainstays of the previous installments of Mr. Wright’s Cornetto Trilogy. “The World’s End” completes a cycle begun with “Shaun of the Dead” and continued in “Hot Fuzz” that blends genre parody, snappy verbal humor and sublimely preposterous action-movie mayhem.

But, at first, this movie seems to have other things on its mind. It effectively masquerades, for almost half its running time, as a rueful, fast-moving comedy of middle-aged resignation and rebellion. Four of the five Golden Milers have traded in the wildness of youth for the respectable trappings of adulthood, with wives and ex-wives (mostly unseen), jobs (briefly visited) and sensible daily routines. The exception is Gary (Mr. Pegg), who drives the same car and wears the same clothes he did as a younger man, and shows the same maniacal devotion to alcohol, drug use and versatile Anglo-Saxon idioms.

This is, objectively, more than a little sad. Gary is not only yet another big-screen case study in male arrested development but also, it seems, a genuinely damaged soul, with decades of failure, bad debts and fruitless rehab stints etched into his face. His pals are not too happy when he shows up to drag them back to Newton Haven, but he sweet-talks, guilt-trips and otherwise manipulates them into joining him. Like most such friends, he is charming as well as exasperating and a catalyst for good times even as he is a constant source of worry.

Not that the other guys — Steven (Paddy Considine), Peter (Eddie Marsan), Oliver (Mr. Freeman) and Andy (Mr. Frost) — are dull ciphers of sober living. Each has his own store of foibles and resentments, and each is funny in his own way. Hanging out with the group as it reignites old bonds and grudges is a mellow pleasure, and if that were all “The World’s End” had to offer, it might be a Gen-X version of Fred Schepisi’s “Last Orders,” a lovely and poignant meditation on the passage of time and the drinking of beer.

But then the robots show up, and also Rosamund Pike as Oliver’s sister, Sam, an old flame of both Gary’s and Steven’s. I honestly don’t want to say too much about the robots, because their arrival sends “The World’s End” spinning into an absurdity that must be experienced fresh. But Ms. Pike, whose presence at first seems structurally analogous to Emma Watson’s role in “This Is the End” — that is, the token woman in a naughty man-child comedy — deserves commendation for her quick wit and robot-fighting skills.

Those robots — and I should note that the film makes a case for the inappropriateness of that word — are an expression of pure narrative anarchy, but they are also metaphors, as such creations tend to be. They symbolize the threat of uniformity, dullness and predictability, the clean and responsible approach to life, and to movies, that “The World’s End” protests with every atom of its being.

And yet Mr. Wright also, in some ways, plays it safe, steering clear of anything too ugly or shocking as he keeps all forms of seriousness at bay. His project is childish fun with adult language and grown-up costumes, and he executes it with energy and precision. The Cornetto Trilogy is named after a popular ice cream treat, and the buzz of “The World’s End” is more like an antic sugar high than a reeling, drunken stupor. There are no headaches, dry mouth or crushing shame at the end — no “Hangover,” in other words. I’ll drink to that.